Is that the moon or a dinosaur’s egg lit from within, cradled, tickled by a pine bough? The eye of my camera captures the moment the breeze pushes the sharp needles perfectly into place.

I wonder about illusion and reality, myth and truth. Who’s to say which is which? Some folks who flirt with an eternity of fairies, say everything is illusion. Others stand with thick-soled boots, put their hands in the dirt, and say, see here, this is what is real.

I say it doesn’t matter, that a fairy’s wing and a farmer’s plow are just a breath apart. Tonight it’s the moon, tomorrow an egg, both resting in my nest.